High Reason
by Lady Viola Delesseps
Summary: A series of shorts on life with Sherlock, and the strange occurrences that come with it. Sometimes sacrifices of sanity are made to the altar of reason. But more domestic types would consider it akin to crime. Lighthearted, and quirky. Give it a try and let me know your thoughts...
1. The Case of the Bedtime Ritual

**Hello, readers! This is going to be a collection of 9 different shorts, each of which makes up a quirk of daily life with Sherlock. The credit for the idea goes to my sister, who is the best, and suggested I write this inspired by myself and her. I have Asperger's syndrome, and she takes care of me in much the same way John looks out for Sherlock. I find comfort in other awesome neuro-atypicals, though I would never claim to be as awesome as Sherlock. So they are, without exception, a collection of my quirks that my sister has to put up with. Call me the Sherlock and her the John, if you will. We would both consider it a compliment :-) Hope you enjoy, and God bless! -Viola**

The Case of the Bedtime Ritual

"Sherlock?" John's forehead furrowed once again at the noises coming from the bathroom. This happened nearly every night, and he was getting curious. It sounded as if the water in the tub were running forcefully, and there was an odd splashing at intermittent intervals...

"Sherlock..." John tapped on the door, and the water shut off, the detective's voice coming through the hollow of the bathroom.

"What?"

"I thought you said you weren't having a shower tonight, I'm running laundry," John called, leaning against the door jamb, the ties of his robe loose on the floor, revealing his pinstripe pajamas beneath.

The door swung open and there was Sherlock, in his signature button-down, his trousers rolled up at rakish heights, exposing his thin white legs. His feet were wet, and a pool of water was gradually soaking the rug, so he turned and stood gingerly on one foot, toweling off the other with great vigor while John watched, his arms crossed. He took a deep breath.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting my feet wet."

"I see that. Why?"

"Tricking myself. I do this every night."

"Yeah, I noticed." John took a deep breath and shuffled back toward the bedroom, stopping short in the corridor, and turning back around.

"Tricking yourself?"

"I don't sleep well if I feel I haven't had a shower, and I can't always take one just before bed."

Sherlock rolled down his trousers and walked quickly across the bare floor, leaping onto the bed and crossing his legs as he undid his shirt and slid under the covers. John still stood in the doorway.

"I'm still missing something."

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered. "Turn off the lights, will you?"

Hand on the switch, John repeated "Tricking yourself?"

"Don't you see? If my feet are just drying I think that I've just gotten out of the shower. It works- I sleep like a baby."

"And when you don't?"

"I'm restless the whole night, my feet are clammy and tangle in the sheets, and I feel generally disgusting." Sherlock shut his eyes, his hair falling back in uneven tangles on the pillow. "Make sense?"

"K-kind of..." John stammered, obediently switching off the light, and beginning tom make his way to his own room. "Sleep well, then," he called at last.

"Thank you, I will," the detective's voice returned.


	2. The Case of the Flattened Soda

The Case of the Flattened Soda

Sunday afternoons it was typical of John and Sherlock to go out and about together, if only to escape the boredom that awaited Sherlock at the flat and the work that awaited John at the clinic. If Sherlock rememberd it was Sunday, that is, they would sometimes go to the pub for lunch. Of course, Sherlock didn't eat, but on one occasion, he did the unthinkable: he ordered a soda.

"Soda?" John said in disbelief, a smile breaking over his features once the waiter had hurried away. "You're drinking a soda?"

"I can't stand carbonation," Sherlock said, grimacing and gesturing at his face. "I never drink it, it goes up my nose and makes me feel strange."

"Then why did you order it?"

"It's much better flat."

It was John's turn to grimace. "That's disgusting."

"Room temperature, and flat."

"Did you tell them that?"

He shook his head. "No sense in bothering them, I'll fix it."

John chuckled and looked out the window for a moment. "Did you never drink soda as a child?"

"Wasn't allowed it. So I never got used to the bubbles. I like the flavor on a rare occasion, though, and found I can drink it this way."

Just then the waiter arrived, depositing John's tea and Sherlock's soda on the table. "Can I get an empty cup and a spoon?" Sherlock asked, giving the man a polite smile.

"Of course." The waiter probably wasn't in the habit of questioning customers, because he hurried off without a second thought.

John was sipping his tea when the empty cup was brought, and the spoon.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and proceeded to fish the pieces of crushed ice from his soda, depositing them in the empty glass.

"You're making quite a mess," John said dubiously, regarding the dribbles on the table, and Sherlock obligingly swiped at it.

"You might want to leave now if you're going to be embarrased. Go to the men's room and come back later, pretending you don't know me."

John laughed outright. "Why -"

But he stopped short as Sherlock thrust his straw into the soda and began to blow vigorous bubbles in it. John stared in surprise. When he paused to take a breath, he explained, "I used to run a fork back and forth in it, agitating the bubbles so that they rose to the top and popped, but I have found it more effective to chemicly force the carbonation out by blowing oxygen into the -" The scrape of John's chair cut him off as he stood and hurriedly crossed the pub, disappearing through the door to the men's room.

When he returned, sufficiently recovered from his laughing fit, Sherlock was sitting calmly, sipping his [completely flat] soda, a second glass filled with melting ice and a small pile of dampened napkins sitting off to the side.

"Good?" He asked, taking a drink of his tea.

Sherlock nodded. "Good."


	3. The Case of the Dishes Before Dinner

The Case of the Dishes Before Dinner

It was one of those rare times Sherlock had been persuaded to eat food. Not just that, but he was actively participating in the preparation thereof. John finished dumping the contents of the pot on the stove on top of the plain noodles, and as if by magic, the familiar sight of spaghetti with red sauce greeted their eyes.

John grabbed each of the plates and took them to the table, pushing aside the various equipment, chemical samples, and papers that were in the way.

"We can eat on this corner, I won't move it all," he explained as Sherlock glared in his direction, and turned back to the sink, switching on the tap, and beginning to run the right side full of soapy water. John looked up at him.

"Sherlock, aren't you going to come and eat? It'll get cold."

"I'm going to wash these dishes."

John, initially overcome by the unusual sight of Sherlock... doing the dishes... momentarily recovered.

"Before dinner? Most people wash them after dinner. We'll still have to wash our plates, you know."

"I don't care. I want to do them now."

"Why?"

"So that we can eat in peace." Sherlock plunked the pot in the left side of the sink and began spraying it out, dropping the various other preparations dishes into the soapy side, and taking up a dishcloth.

John shrugged and took a forkful of the pasta, savoring the rich flavors that flooded his tongue.

"It's good," he tempted, swallowing, and spinning another bite onto the tines.

"Well, don't look at me, you made it."

"You helped."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."

"Come and eat yours." John pushed back his chair and walked over to the sink, staring at the detective who was absorbed in rinsing the clean dishes and angling them properly onto each other on a clean towel which o'er-spread the counter. "No one washes the dishes before dinner."

"I do. There." Tossing the last spoon onto the pile, Sherlock draped the heap in another towel to get it out of sight, and allowed them to drip as he crossed the room and seated himself at the table. Taking a mouthful of the pasta, he chewed thoughtfully.

"What are you thinking of?" John inquired at length, sitting down across from him.

"Don't end a sentence with a preposition..." Sherlock murmured, before shaking himself and seeming to see John at last. "It is good."

"I told you."

"Better in peace."

"What's this about 'peace'? Would dishes in the sink bother you while you're trying to eat?"

"Of course. Who could digest properly knowing the unpleasant task of cleaning up afterward still looms ahead? Part of the reason I never eat." He took another bite, speaking around it. "Much better if you do them beforehand, so you can enjoy your meal, and then only have a little work afterward."

John shook his head. "Whatever you say."

Sherlock always did it that way from that day on. And John still sometimes ended sentences with prepositions. Together they were a hopeless case.


	4. The Case of Truth, of Course

The Case of Truth, Of Course

"I love this game," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together, and folding his knees up to his chest in the armchair. John chuckled.

"That's because it's your way of legally interrogating people you can't deduce," he said.

"Wrong. But it is fun to hear the confessions from their own lips."

John drew the heavy blanket further over his lap and gave the fire a final poke before settling back into his respective armchair

"Alright then. You go first."

"To ask, or to answer?"

"To answer." John pursed his lips. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth, of course," Sherlock replied, as if the answer were obvious. John thought for a moment.

"What is your most embarrassing childhood memory?"

Sherlock answered quickly. "When I spoke with improper grammar before the entire primary school."

John resisted the urge to laugh. "That is the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

"Mortifying." Sherlock pressed his hands together beneath his nose and stared into the flames. "I said, 'I was just wondering where Mr. Olmstead was at.'" He shut his eyes, as it hating to recall the moment.

"Did anyone notice that was improper? I wouldn't."

"Not your turn anymore. Truth or dare?"

John hesitated for a moment. "Truth," he said, adding, "but only because I am terrified of whatever your might dare me to do."

Sherlock chuckled in his turn, and asked, "Why do you sleep with your trousers off?"

John was momentarily surprised. How on earth... "Because it is too warm beneath the covers with them on," he said, clearing his throat and giving a quiet sniff. "What's it to you?"

"Wouldn't you find it more sensible to leave them on, and remove the covers instead? Slightly more modest," Sherlock said, his icy gaze meeting John's.

He squirmed slightly. "You're one to talk of modesty, after wearing a sheet to Buckingham -"

"When did you start this? Not military life, I'm sure."

John considered. "Actually, not until I moved in here. It's so stuffy sometimes." Suddenly his eyes widened. "It's not your turn anymore!"

Sherlock grinned. "I wondered when you were going to notice."

"Truth or dare?" John asked moodily.

"Truth, of course."

"'Of course,'" John mimicked. "Oh... now, I have to think of a question. What is something you'd never tell anyone?"

"That I have an affinity for cotton swabs," Sherlock answered quickly. "Secret. They're such handy things."

"Affinity?" John raised his eyebrows. "Interesting way of putting it." He took a sip of his tea, swallowing quickly. "Your turn."

"Truth or dare?"

"Erm... truth," John said. "Make it a clean blow."

Sherlock hesitated. "Why do you phone your sister if you two aren't speaking?"

"We only aren't speaking because she never answers," John said mildly. "And you knew that already."

"I just wanted to confirm."

"Ah. Truth or dare? Truth, of course," John answered himself, spitting out, "Do you ever remember feeling emotions as a younger person?"

"Actually..." Sherlock began, "-I was going to say dare."

John groaned. "Drat, I wanted the answer to that one. Now I have to come up with a dare. I know." He straightened. "Sing 'I'm a Little Teapot' all the way thorough."

Sherlock scowled. "I don't really remember the words. Remind me how it goes?"

And Sherlock sat quietly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as John sang 'I'm a Little Teapot' all the way through, complete with the motions.


	5. The Case of Matching Patterns

The Case of Matching Patterns

It was positively awful. "You're not going out in that...?" John said, crossing his arms. "Tell me there's a costume party I didn't hear about."

"What, doesn't this work?" Sherlock looked down at the pinstripe shirt and the plaid tie which was knotted about his neck. Mycroft had summoned him, and grousing, Sherlock had made himself presentable. At least, _his_ idea of presentable.

"Not really." John gave up trying to be polite. "Sherlock, it's atrocious."

"Well, I think it works."

"It doesn't."

"I can't respect a person who places so much value on outward appearances."

"No one could respect anyone in such a get-up." John exhaled through his nose. "It's the tie. It has to go."

"What if I like it? I think patterns should go together."

"Well, they don't," John said shortly. "So stop coming up with mathematical algorithms to prove me wrong, and just accept it is a societal norm."

"Hm..." Sherlock regarded himself before the mirror, before wheeling. "Well, what would go with this tie?"

"Nothing you've got in your closet," John said doubtfully. "Take it off, and begin again."

"New shirt and all?" Sherlock shook his head. "No. I like it. The diagonal lines of the tie are a nice contrast the the vertical ones presented by the shirt."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, go then. But know that you look rather..."

"Remarkable."

"That's one way of putting it."


	6. The Case of Violin in the Dark

The Case of Violin in the Dark

Rummaging through the darkness and squinting at the dim light cast from the streetlamps outside, Sherlock at last found what he was looking for. Somehow it always got buried, no matter how regularly he got it out.

Clicking open the case, Sherlock lifted his violin from the padding and set it under his chin, tightening his bow and holding it poised for a moment above the strings, deep in thought.

Soon, a tentative melody came upon the shadows, filling the room in the absence of sight. It was not without odd notes and a few errant squeaks, but the detective plowed onward, swelling the tune and speeding it up, faster and faster until he felt as if his soul were on fire.

Abruptly, the light switching on put a stop to Sherlock's music-making.

"Turn that off!" he demanded, and John squinted in the bright light.

"What the bloody -"

"Turn it off..." Sherlock stalked across the room, flipping the switch down, before resuming his position before the window, a slim silhouette against the moonlight, and beginning to play once again. He stopped short in frustration.

"You made me lose my train of thought."

"You'll hurt your eyes, you need some light in here," John pointed out. "How on earth can you see what you're doing?"

"Playing from my head," Sherlock murmured. "I don't need to see anything."

John stood there in silence as once again the melody filled the night.

"Are you making that up?"

Sherlock managed to nod without lifting his chin from the instrument, and swept his bow over the strings in a final fermata...

"That was better," he said to himself.

"Better than what?"

"Than if I had played it in the light. When there's nothing else but sound, I play better, and it fills me, as if there were nothing else in the world."

"Listen to you, waxing poetic..." John chuckled as Sherlock flipped shut the case on his instrument and stowed it in the corner. "Violin in the dark?"

"Of course. It makes sense, really."


	7. The Case of the Extremely Short Nails

The Case of the Extremely Short Nails

They were two of a kind. Sherlock and John sat opposite each other, laptops opened, typing away almost nonstop.

"Hm - what are you doing?" John asked at last, without stopping in his signature hunt-and-peck typing style.

"Case notes - you?" Sherlock said, flashing a quick glance over the top of the screen.

"Updating my blog."

The flurry of letters being entered continued, rife with backspacing and backspacing yet again, and at last Sherlock stopped, rising quickly with a muttered curse.

"What?" John looked surprised. "What's wrong?"

"I can't type properly, it feel disgusting. Where are the clippers..." Sherlock hurried into the bathroom, and began rummaging in the drawers beneath the sink.

"Clippers?" John followed at a slight distance, not sure if he should get involved. "Nail clippers?"

"Usually I can go six days in between, but it has only been five. Still, they're too long, and everything feels different. I can't -"

"Why don't you just wait seven and make it an even week?" He shrugged. "Then even if you have to be methodical, you can still have a decent way to remember it. Every Thursday, and so on."

"Seven days would drive me insane. It's enough to wait six. By day five, they're not quite long enough, it's the last day that's the hardest to endure."

"We are talking about - _fingernails, _right?" John was wondering if he might have missed something.

"Every week, waiting for them to get long enough to cut, and having to persevere through the day _feeling_ them every time you touch anything..." Sherlock at last found the a small apparatus and began to clip his nails viciously.

"Watch it, you'll draw blood -" John winced, seeing the detective's vehemence. "Is this really that big of a deal?"

"Of course it is. It changes the spacial awareness my hands have in everything, but especially fine motor skills. Think about if you relied on a single part of your body - which you do, you just don't think about it - for nearly all the information your mind can take in, aside from your eyes. Ears don't count as much, not for me, visual and tactile learner. So, when you touch anything, your sense of balance is off by a fraction of a centimeter and I keep making errors when I type because things don't feel the same as when my nails are shorter. To calculate the total time lost by the inefficiency would be a good exercise, but maddening, seeing I have no way to prevent it."

"It's not as if you ever let them get long, by any means," John said in exasperation. "You're telling me you -"

"My happiness and sense of balance in day to day life is directly tied to my nails being so short I cannot feel them, yes." Sherlock finished, tossing the clippers back into the drawer and closing it with his leg. He ran his newly-liberated fingertips over the front of his shirt, rejoicing in the stimulation, but frowning when there was the tiny sound of a snag.

"John, do we have a file?"


	8. The Case of the Unwanted Receipt

The Case of the Unwanted Receipt

The pavement was wet, wet with the slush of melting snow mixed with road grease and various other unnameable substances that combined to smear the sidewalks of London. Entering the shop, Sherlock located John and went to him, standing silently by his side as he finished making his selection of two different flavors of granola bar.

"We need dental floss," Sherlock put in, but John replied, "I know, but they don't have it at the one-stop. We'll have to go to the real grocery for that."

"Hm."

Approaching the counter, John deposited his snack on the counter and nodded to the clerk, reaching into his pocket. His face froze. Cursing, he turned to Sherlock.

"I must have left my wallet at the flat," he said, exhaling through his nose. "Front me?"

"Certainly." Pulling out a note, Sherlock paid the clerk, who asked:

"Would you like a receipt?"

"Please."

The machine sang as it is printed out the narrow paper, and tearing it off, the clerk handed it to Sherlock. "Have a good day."  
"Thanks," John replied, and they hurried out the door. As they passed a cylindrical bin, Sherlock crushed the receipt and tossed it in.

"Didn't you want that?" John asked, looking back over his shoulder as they hurried on. "Why did you ask for it if you didn't want it?"

"Habit, I suppose. You're supposed to get a receipt, aren't you?"

"If the purchase is small, they'll give you the option. Some people don't want extra scraps of paper they don't need."

"Myself included."

"But you asked for it!" John exclaimed. "That doesn't make sense."

Sherlock stopped short, and John almost bumped into him. "You're right," he said, but then shrugged. " But I always do it that way."

"Ask for a receipt and then throw it away?"

Sherlock nodded, and John felt a laugh rising in his throat. Swallowing it back, he addressed himself to the taller man. .

"Sherlock?" he said**.**

"Hm?"

"You're interesting, you know that?"

The detective looked down with a small smile. "I'd hate to think I was boring."

"So you're trying to do this? Trying to do all these strange things so you're not like ordinary people?"

"Is that what you think?" Sherlock looked surprised. "No - I'm not trying to do anything. I don't do anything I don't feel like."

And John believed him.


	9. The Case for Humanity, Reality,and Touch

The Case for Humanity, Reality, and Touch

**Last one, thank you so much for reading! Don't forget to let me know your thoughts. Enjoy!**

Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, his arms locked over his chest, his face set in a firm and impenetrable mask. John swung open the door and saw him thus, but didn't say anything as he removed his coat and dumped his other things from work onto the nearby chair.

Going into the kitchen, John scrubbed his hands and dried them on the towel, returning to the common area and removing his laptop from his satchel, bending, and plugging it into the outlet. Sherlock still hadn't moved. An extraordinarily fascinating double murder had been keeping him up all hours for the past three days, and now that the case was finally concluded, John suspected he was tired.

His forehead shifted as his brow lowered still further, as Sherlock clenched his jaw, tightening his arms over his chest. John was a little concerned.

"Sherlock?" he asked, crossing the room, and standing before the detective. "Are you alright?"

There was no response. John sighed; this was not unusual. Regularly, Sherlock would 'shut down' as he put it, and neither speak nor move for hours. Normally this would happen when he was thinking deeply about something, but now...

"You feeling alright?" he repeated. Sherlock didn't move. "Want a smoke?" he hazarded, fully expecting the man to leap up and grab him by the shoulders, asking eagerly if that was allowed. He still didn't move. John sighed again, crossing his arms.

"Prove to me that you're alive, at least."

"I can't." Two words, spoken in a low, husky voice, devoid of emotion, hope, or life.

"Don't be silly." John sat down next to Sherlock's legs, feeling the detective shy away from the touch. "Of course you're alive."

"The saying is 'I think, therefore I am.'"

A long silence.

"Yeah, I've heard it. So, what do you mean? You think." He chuckled. "That's all you do."

"I am a brain, then. But not a human."

"I'm pretty sure you're a human," John put in, but stopped at the pale look on the other man's face.

"John, I don't feel like I exist..." Sherlock's voice caught, and John stared. Was Sherlock -

"Of course you exist. You think, you move, you breathe -"

"But I can't prove it."

"Don't be ridiculous. Other people see you, talk to you..."

"It could be an illusion."

"It's not."

"Prove it."

John sighed, and at last lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective flinched and his eyes flew open.

"Do you feel that?" said the doctor, evenly.

"Feelings don't prove -"

"Do you feel that?" His eyes met Sherlock's.

Sherlock nodded. John didn't remove his hand, but added a bit of warm pressure, and the detective's eyes closed, after a long moment reaching up a cold finger and tracing it over the veins which stood out on the top of John's hand.

"I exist," he whispered. "I am real."

"I told you," John said quietly.


End file.
